Asking the past

The past is a secret history

in that cline divine of lies and secrets and silence,

and was I wrong to ask?

In this place this cave, I've

never been here before. Can

you tell me the truth - you

know that thing that resides in

heaven? ... tell me that?

Porcelain, I may be, but 

I'm happy to break and

shatter across the floor, like

an Amadeus' rushed creation.

You see, she's come back, motherr,

infancy, she's held on and 

holds me. I need no mother and no

liar two.